


New Worlds

by carillion



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carillion/pseuds/carillion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief snapshot of a scene, set sixty years post- events of The Hobbit, in the year prior to the events of The Lord of the Rings. Gollum, who had been brought to Mirkwood for safekeeping by the Grey Wizard, has escaped with aid from Mordor. The Elvenking and his guards have been unsuccessful in re-capturing him. They now return to their city in the north, the Elvenking ruminating on what the last sixty years has brought him, and what the future holds.  </p><p>A moment of realisation, for the King and his Captain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> Sweet and a little soppy. Just playing with the characters before trying my hand at anything longer. Let me know what you think.

. 

Deep in the dark of the Greenwood, a small wooden cart rattles slowly along a narrow dirt track. Outside, the rain has been lashing down for hours with no no sign of stopping. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of wet leather and wool. Ten elves sleep softly, leaning against one another for warmth. Their ride may not be smooth, but exhaustion deepens their dreams. They have been on the march for seven days, tracking an escaped prisoner through the tangled southern trees. They lost sign of their quarry as he crossed the narrow mountain range that traversed their forest home. Now, they return north, dispirited and exhausted.

Meeting the silk merchant has been the one bit of good luck they have experienced since leaving their woodland home, a week past. If it had not been for their accidental crossing on the Old Forest road, the elves would have likely spent the night sleepless in the sodden undergrowth. As it was, the merchant and his two sons would pass the Elvenking’s halls on their way east. They required safe guidance through the storm and were willing to exchange shelter in one of their carts for the help. 

Interests aligned, the elven company’s leader agreed quickly to the terms. Nine of the ten elves climbed gratefully into the back of the cart, and she joined the merchant at the front of the caravan. Perched atop the driver’s seat, she helps him guide his two dappled ponies northward through the rain, keeping her eyes peeled on the canopy. Their forest is home to many dark creatures. Even its paths are treacherous, often doubling back on themselves or contradicting their earlier direction, but the elf Captain knows this place well. She has guarded it for the best part of four centuries. She has hunted here for longer. Perched atop the cart, she takes the merchant on the wisest route, avoiding paths she knows will peter out, or lead them into spider-infested territory. She scans the leafy boughs for foes, scouts ahead to clear rocks in the path, fires off the occasional arrow to dissuade an interested wolf. She keeps her post until one of the merchant’s sons comes forward, near dawn, to offer his father the chance of a rest, and then she realises she should do the same. Jumping down from her perch, she makes her way back along the caravan to join her companions. 

Pulling herself inside takes almost heroic effort. The rain is cold for the month of Afterlithe. It feels more like winter than mid-summer, but the summers have been getting shorter for years, the she-elf reminds herself - and the skies darker. She can remember a time in her youth where the forest had been a place to roam without fear. Summers had been long. Harvests had been plentiful and the trees had provided shelter and safety. Now, the Greenwood is a dark snarl of fear. Goblins and trolls lurk on the western borders. Uruks gather in the south-east. Wolf packs a hundred strong roam the forest’s centre. It is not a safe place to travel. It has not been safe for a long time.

Her entry to the cart wakes three of the sleeping elves. The first is a young archer. He extends a hand to help pull her in, then inclines his head towards the rain outside - an offer to take her place. The elf-Captain shakes her head, however, turning instead to the second elf who had woken. The dark haired female, Nileth, is a better choice to guide the mortal. She has the best night-eyes of the palace guard. If anyone can guide them home, it is she. 

As Nileth moves to take her Captain’s place and Tauriel moves deeper inside the cart, the third elf to have woken turns his head against the wooden wall. Wakefulness has not come pleasantly, for him - though, he supposes, it is better than the nightmares. Shivering, he pulls the wool of his cloak tighter about his shoulders. The night is cold. At this time of the year, a tunic and leathers should be enough to keep a body warm, but the days are dark, now, despite the month. The air is as cold as it used to be in early spring. The world is changing, he thinks, watching Tauriel pull her sodden cloak from over her head and hang it in a free corner of the cart. There is a shadow growing and it is one that this elf recognises. He has fought it before. He has seen its rage. The thought of its return drives fear into his very heart. That is why he sits in this rocking cart, he think, feet weary from days on the road and sword hand blistered from the goblins they have cut down in their pursuit.

The creature they have been chasing is an agent of the Dark One, whose knowledge would prove valuable in the coming war. While not an elf given to displays of generosity, Thranduil of the Greenwood had given his word to Mithrandir that he would keep the creature safe in his dungeons. An orc attack, under cover of unnatural darkness, had broken that promise. A raiding party of thirty had stormed the cave city during midsummer celebrations, catching the elves unawares. In the confusion that followed, Gollum - assisted by a second smaller party of orcs who had entered over the river gate - had slipped out of his cell and away. By the time the elves thought to check on him, he was long vanished into the forest. Eleven of the Greenwood’s finest warriors had set off after him, but a terrible storm had raged overhead, covering his tracks until he was well past their borders. A weeks pursuit had left them empty-handed. The creature was gone, his word was broken, and a shadow was growing overhead. 

The Elvenking sighs. 

His body aches all over. His pride aches further still. Yet, at least he is dry, he thinks, watching Tauriel pull the boots from her feet and tip the water that has collected in them out the back of the cart. These past three hours inside have been precious respite from the rain. He is grateful for that. 

As she turns from emptying her boots, the elf Captain casts her eyes over the other occupants of the cart and finally notices that he is awake. 

Catching his eye, she bobs her head in greeting. 

“My Lord.”

He dips his chin, too sleep-weary to speak.

Setting her boots to one side, Tauriel half-stands, picking her way around their sleeping brethren until she reaches his side. There, she finds enough space to kneel down and make herself comfortable. The other soldiers have granted him more space than they have given one another. Though he travels as one of them, today, he is still their King. 

“You should be asleep,” Tauriel tells him, taking up position against the wall. 

She chides as none of the others would dare, the Elvenking thinks, watching amber eyes trace his face in search of injury or distress. It has become her place to. 

She has been a good friend to him these last sixty years. In the wake of the storming of Erebor, they had come to know one another better than he could ever have imagined. They both suffered a terrible loss that day, as snow fell gently on the mountainside. She, a lover. He, a son. They were losses that were irreparable. Tauriel’s dwarf had gone where she could never follow, and Legolas had made it clear in the years that followed that he had no intention of ever returning to the Greenwood. The only contact Thranduil had been granted was the occasional message, through mutual acquaintances, and a letter, a few months past, imploring him to listen to Mithrandir and take the creature Gollum under his guard. To be true, the letter was the only reason the Elvenking had agreed to the wizard’s terms. He had thought it possible that Legolas might be the one to deliver the creature to the city. He had thought it an opportunity, at the very least, to show that he was willing to participate in the events of the wider world - an opportunity to mend some burned bridges. Instead, the situation had proved a disaster.

Beside him, Tauriel’s eyes run over his face again, then she turns her attention to her state of dress. Pulling off her sodden leather tunic, she sets the garment atop a nearby barrel of the merchant’s finest ginger root to dry, and turns to rubbing her arms. 

“We are five hours south of the river,” she reports, teeth chattering. In only a thin cotton tunic, she looks very small and very cold. “We should arrive around first light. Nileth knows the path well. We have patrolled it many times.”

“Has there been any signs of spiders?” the Elvenking asks. 

He does not really need to ask. He already knows the answer. Had there been any sign of a foe, Tauriel would never have left her perch outside. She would have sat, daggers drawn, until she dropped from exhaustion. His Captain is nothing if not devoted. 

“No sign.”

She runs her fingers through half-damp hair. The hood of her woollen cloak has given her fair protection, but a few raindrops still dapple her cheeks and her hair has formed damp ringlets. One clings to the edge of her brow and, watching, the Elvenking feels a strong urge to brush it free. Instead, he pulls himself straighter against the back of the cart, offering her space to sit. 

The elf Captain looks a little surprised but accepts without comment - something of which the King is glad. They have known one another for many years, but there are still some boundaries that they have been careful not to explore. Proximity is one of them. Always, Tauriel has kept a respectful distance. As a friend, as a Captain, as an advisor - even in their closest moments - she is careful never to express too much familiarity. He knows it is a way of protecting herself. Before the rout of Smaug and the battle of five armies, they played only minor roles in one another’s lives. She was a lieutenant amongst his soldiers. He was the father of her friend. Neither had known the first thing about the soul of the other, (though he suspects both had speculated). She likely fears a return to their previous roles. 

It is not something that has ever crossed his mind, he thinks, as he offers her a share of his cloak. There is no going back for him. During this last year, in particular, they have become very close. They spend more time together than apart. She reports to him in his personal chambers. They dine together often. He is teaching her to speak in the ancient Sindarin tongue and she is showing him how to play the wood harp. They have shared things about themselves that he would never have expected. He has shared things he vowed never to tell another living soul. There is no going back to what they were before. 

Beside him, Tauriel pulls the cloak over her legs and tucks her arms beneath the cloak. Their shoulders brush against one another as she finds a comfortable position. She is much smaller than he, Thranduil thinks. If she were to wear his cloak properly, it would cover her entirely. 

It is not an unpleasant experience, to think of her wrapped in his colours. If he were not so tired, the realisation would have stirred caution within him.

Tauriel turns to him. 

“You look weary.” Her eyes are serious - a study of worry, in amber. “Did you sleep?”

In years past, he would have scorned her for nagging. She was not his mother, he would have reminded. She had no duty to make sure that he was sleeping or eating. He had not required a nanny for over six thousand years. He does not scorn tonight, however. Tauriel has sat out in the cold for hours so that they might rest. She has led them through the forest for days longer than she thought was necessary. She has indulged his need to pick their way through every bit of undergrowth on the way back, for missed clues. She has performed above and beyond the call of duty. She can nag him all she wishes.

“I slept as soon as I sat down,” he tells her. "My body feels better for it." 

“Good." Tauriel wraps her arms around herself under the cloak, squirming into a more comfortable position. "I suggested to Josader that he and his sons might stop at your halls for a day. Their silk is of poor quality, but they carry some herbs from the ports of Umbar that the healers may be interested in. The kitchens might also appreciate a look at his spice collection.”

“Josander?”

“The merchant who is so kindly transporting us.”

The Elvenking nods. It is a wise decision. The Lonely mountain was a good two day’s march from his halls. Allowing the mortals to rest would increase their chances of surviving the journey. It was hard to ward off spiders when one could keep their eyes open, after all, and there had been enough death in his woods. 

“A fair plan,” he tells Tauriel. 

“You will grant them entry?”

“Yes.”

She smiles, then looks away, eyes travelling over their sleeping comrades. There is something fiercely protective in her gaze. They are her people as much as his, the Elvenking thinks, watching her eyes trace sleeping bodies, performing a silent headcount. She has run with them, fought with them, and commanded them for nearly two hundred years.

“Have they eaten?” she asks, keeping her voice soft. 

“Amply,” he answers. “I thought, as we were going to arrive at the city a day early, we could afford double rations.”

“They will be glad of it, my Lord.”

“Mm.”

It feels odd to hear his title from her, tonight. She calls him by his given name often, these days, when they are alone and their conversation has turned from the professional. It would be a balm to hear it now, he thinks. He has slept well, these past few hours, but now he is awake his soul is tearing itself apart. Events of the last few weeks are compounding on one another inside his head. 

The world is growing darker. The creature is gone, the information about the enemy’s weapon beyond their reach. His realm will soon be in mortal danger and there is nothing he can do to prevent it. He does not know what his next move should be, or where to turn for help. He does not even know if there is anyone who would aid him, should he ask. He has burned many bridges over the years, he thinks, watching Tauriel yawn. In truth, it is a miracle there are creatures left willing to use his name. 

As if sensing his unrest, the captain frowns slightly. 

“What ails you?”

He considers not answering. He considers lying. The others are close and they should never hear their leader doubt himself. But they are asleep and he is weary of pretence.

“We should have been able to track him,” he murmurs, words so soft that they almost obscured by the sound of rain outside. “But there were no footprints… not even a bent blade of grass.”

Tauriel nods. 

“It worries me also. Some dark force seemed to speed to his journey. This storm does not feel like the work of the natural world.”

“Sorcery,” he muses.

“Some ancient evil that we cannot comprehend…” 

Her eyes are fearful. Thranduil finds himself frightened, also. Does she know, he wonders. Does she understand, yet, that he is just flesh and bone, wrapped up in gold and silk and fear? It feels as if it is writ across his face somedays. 

“I know nothing of war like this,” Tauriel murmurs. “I have been in battle. I have seen war, but not against such a foe. My enemies have always had a face and a form. All I required to defeat them was a sword.” 

“I imagine we will be granted plenty of those enemies, also,” he comments dryly. “Before long.”

“You know what I mean.”

He does.

A servant of Morgoth. An army of hate, fuelled with rage. An evil that would wash over this land, wave after wave, breeding like flies atop a carcass. They would swarm until they had covered all of this earth, he thinks, and they would poison all that lay before them. His realm would fall. His people would perish, or fade. 

He can still remember the fear of the last war. He can remember the lines it etched upon his father’s face. In that war, he had been a prince and a soldier. He had been afraid, yes, but all that had been required of him was to follow orders. In this war, the orders would need come from him. It was he who would send soldiers to their deaths. It was he who would determine the fate of his people. He, who could not track a single, half-mad creature through his own forest. 

“Do you think this war is inevitable?” Tauriel asks, after a long pause. 

“Yes.”

“And it will come to us all?”

“Yes. I believe so.”

A pause.

“Do you think we will survive it?” 

A sigh stretches his lungs. That, he does not know. Indeed, he does not know if he wishes to know. Some days, it is enough of a challenge simply putting one foot on front of the other.

“Not as we are,” he eventually answers. “I think the world as we know it has reached its end… If we survive this war, our people will have to make their way in a new one.” 

They sit in silence as the cart rattles its way over the uneven ground. Thranduil feels his shoulders bump against the wooden wall, and his heart beat against the side of his neck, and ruminates on how little he wishes to be wrenched from this earth. Death is not the end for his people, yet he finds himself loathe to embrace the process of an Eldar’s rebirth. The thought should fill him with peace. Many of his people long for existence on another plane, or in the peaceful shores of the undying lands. Yet this body is his own, and the Greenwood is his home, and while Legolas and Tauriel walk this earth he cannot help but feel that there is far more holding him back than pulling him on. He has so much left to do; places to see, tastes to sample, lands to roam, rivers to swim, trees to climb, songs to write, and skies to sleep under. He wants to chase the sun to the ends of the earth and peer over the horizon. He wants to feel the warmth of another's skin against his own. He wants to laugh. He wants to feel life again before he dies. He always thought he would have the time.

Tauriel watches his hands as they lie folded in his lap. She looks as if she might be sharing in his melancholy introspection. When she speaks, however, it is with words so hopeful that the Elvenking cannot help but smile. 

“My mother used to tell me that evil has always existed,” she says quietly, “and that fact should give us strength. For, if evil has not conquered the world yet, then it surely never will. Wherever it travels and however large it grows, darkness will always be an absence. It will always be defeated by the presence of light. Even the smallest flame can strike it down.” 

She looks up at him, unease in her expression. If she is expecting sarcasm, however, she is disappointed. Her words have left him quite without retort. 

What does one say to a statement of hope in such a hopeless time? There is beauty in what his Captain has said - great beauty - but he cannot help but think they are such a small flame, in the face of such a large and devastating darkness. In the wide world, his people number few. Of their Lords and Ladies, he is neither the strongest nor the wisest. But, perhaps, he does have the most to live for. 

Is it possible to survive out of sheer want? In this moment, with the rain battering down on the roof and the darkness pressing in all around them, it feels as if it just might be. It feels as if want could push him to do just about anything. Quite separate to sense - quite suddenly and with great intensity - he finds himself wanting to reach over and brush a strand of damp red hair from his Captain’s forehead. It is late and he is exhausted and all he wants is to brush the hair back, lean his head against her shoulder and ask her wrap her arms around him. It is gratuitous comfort seeking, he knows. It is selfish, but they would fit so well together and it has been a perilously long time since anyone has touched him. They have been close for many years, he thinks. She is his friend. It would not be such an infringement upon societal norms. That was, it would not be such an infringement if she were not looking at him as she is looking at him now. 

There is a half-hidden softness in Tauriel’s eyes as they sit together in the dark - a look which he has spotted only half a dozen times before, but understands perfectly well. It is something they have never truly discussed, despite all of the conversations which have taken them late into the night. They have too much to lose by venturing down that road. Yet it remains an open secret between them. She loves him and he knows it. She has loved him and he has known it for nearly fifty years. 

In the decade after the siege of Erebor and the death of the dwarf lord, Tauriel proved herself to be stronger than he had ever imagined. She built a new life from the embers of the old. As her grief lessened, she redoubled her efforts within the City guard. She rid the woodlands of spiders for a hundred miles in all directions. She began to learn new tongues, to work with different weapons. She reached out to him, too, despite the pain he had caused her - despite his being inexorably linked to the death of her lover on the watchtower at Ravenhill. Perhaps she was repenting for her own guilt. Perhaps she simply sensed the pain he was suffering and forgave him out of understanding. Whatever the reason, they fell in with one another, seeking to fill the void their loved ones had left. 

They came together slowly at first. He was hesitant and she understandably wary of the difference in their social status. As the months ticked past, however, they began to let one another in. By the end of the first year, he had begun to see her as a friend, as well as his Captain of the Guard. By the end of the second, she was his closest confidant within the palace walls. By five, she was as close as any of his kin had ever been. By ten, he did not feel surprise when he met her eyes one evening - laughing at some shared joke over dinner, in his chambers - and saw that half-hidden softness there. At some level, he had begun to feel it too; that connection, that easy warmth in another’s presence. It had been growing between them for such a long time that the moment was more of a realisation than a revelation. There had always been something else between them. (Small at first, but growing larger, along the fringes of their friendship). While Tauriel seemed sure of this development, however, he was not. There were still too many walls around his heart - too much guilt and fear to let anybody close. He had felt the pain of being pulled apart from a mate before, and the thought of opening himself up to that pain again was almost unthinkable. And there was no situation in which it was socially acceptable for them to claim one another, besides, he told himself. The kindest thing was to tell her that it would never come to pass, to tell her that he valued her friendship but could not offer any more. So that was what he did. 

To her credit, Tauriel never begrudged him his decision. Just a few weeks later, walking together in the training grounds, she told him that he would always have her friendship - in whatever capacity he required. Something good should not drive two people apart, she told him, with that sad soft smile she had. There was too much darkness in the world for that. That left him with a decision. He could either put distance between them, or he could consent to being her friend, knowing that there was more than just friendship in her heart for him. Her soul was strong enough to weather it if his was, she told him. 

Humbled by her admission, the Elvenking had accepted her terms and convinced himself that her love was just a youthful reaction; that her feelings would fade over time. As it turned out, however, it was not her feelings that faded but his resolve. Over the next fifty years, they grew closer than he could have anticipated. The last five were littered with moments that illuminated the true nature of their relationship. The most poignant was the realisation that came to him when she rode out for two months, on patrol to the western border of his lands. In her absence, Thranduil had found himself falling into melancholy, tripping over the gaps that opened up in his daily routine. Meals passed in solitary silence, books lay unread, the harp sat untouched on his table and conservative tactics went unchallenged in his council room. He missed her dreadfully. He missed her in a manner that was entirely unsuitable for a King to miss his Captain, or even his friend. Time and persistence had worn away the walls, her warmth and her gentle love had worn away his guilt and fear, and he had found himself standing before her, quite as exposed as she had been before him all those years before. 

Long hours ruminating by the fireplace had yielded him no clue as to what to do next. To tell her seemed almost cruel, considering that their social situation had not changed. Love her he might, but there was still no manner in which it would be acceptable to claim one another. Their kind rarely took lovers and almost never remarried - and his son’s involvement complicated matters beyond reason. What he felt for Tauriel could not change the rules of their world, so he decided it was best to keep it to himself. They had lived out the last fifty years in such a manner, after all. Where was the harm? 

So things went on much as they had before. She returned from her outriding and resumed her position in his life. Days passed. Weeks passed. Summer died and autumn fell. The leaves of the forest burnished from greens, to yellows, to orange and reds. The wizard and the mortal came to the cavern city. They brought him the creature. The wizard and the mortal left. Winter descended. Heavy snows brought goblins and wolves down from the mountains, in their droves, to reap from the forest. His people faced hardship. With game scarce, the folk in his outer villages began to starve. Tauriel’s guards rode out to bring them food and fight off the raiding parties, but the days stayed short for longer than was usual. Spring came reluctantly that year and the air remained cool. In the south east, a darkness was growing - a haze that seemed to spread north from that dread realm of Mordor like some terrible plague.

Restless, the King began to visit the prisoner in his dungeons, searching for answers. Pity stirred in him, despite his repulsion for the creature, and he agreed to let him wander the woods under armed guard. Slowly, spring turned to summer. Half-heartedly, summer heat and peaked. Then, on midyears eve, the orcs came. While his people prepared for celebrations, they stormed the city and took the creature, slaying five in the process. He rode out that same night to retrieve him, the Captain and a small cohort in tow. Through the wind and the rain of an unnatural storm, they ran, her always by his side. Four days out, searching to the edge of their borders. Three days back, exhausted in empty-handed retreat. And here they were, sitting side by side in the back of a silk merchant’s cart, listening to the rain drum. 

He can feel the weight of the summer, and the winter, and all of the seasons that came before them sitting heavily on his shoulders. He can feel his heart throbbing in time with the rain, so loud he can almost hear it. He is acutely aware of Tauriel’s presence, the soft noises of her breaths and the creak of the wood as she shifts to look at him better. Her hair is a tangle of half dried curls. Her eyes are focussed on his and her brow is furrowed softly; a ‘v’ of soft lines that meet in her pale skin. She is still beautiful when she frowns, he thinks. There are very few expressions she wears that are not beautiful.

As his eyes trace her brow, he becomes suddenly aware that his own expression might no longer be as veiled as he normally maintains. He is watching her with love and she can see everything. Panic rises within him. He wrenches his gaze away, focussing on the rattling wooden wall.

 _Pe-channas!_ Idiot!

His heartbeat drums faster, like thunder in his neck. She knows, he thinks, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. The careful monitoring of his own expression, these last few months, has been in vain. One moment of weakness, one moment of self-indulgent longing, and all that he was hiding has been revealed. He is a sentimental fool. Could he not hold back for ten more minutes until she was asleep? Why must he constantly strive to make things difficult for himself? He had resolved not to show her this change in his heart. What good would it do them, after all? There was nothing for them. There was no future in their strange finding of one another. The pair of them were half broken from loss and he is her King, besides. There are his people to think of, and the upheaval it could bring to his Kingdom, and his son. The situation is ridiculous. The pair of them knew it. It was why they had resolved to remain friends.

Ai...

He tightens his jaw. How was it that Tauriel had managed for nearly fifty years, masking her feelings, while he had barely lasted six months? Had he always been this incompetent?

Several minutes pass in silence, feeling like several lifetimes. The time for speaking comes and passes, but the both elves remain silent. He knows that he should look over - he cannot be sure if she saw what he thinks she saw in his eyes, after all, and it could be a lot of worry for nothing - but the way she continues to watch him seems answer enough. She will have seen in his eyes all that she needed to see. She will have seen that half-softness that he saw in her, before. That warm, smouldering affection; that longing for something more. His heart continues to throb against the skin of his neck. His eyes remain glued to the the uneven wood of the cart. What will she do now, he wonders? Will she anger? She has every right to. After the show he had made of clarifying the nature of their relationship, all those years ago, to bring it up now is foolish as well as insensitive. They are on the brink of war, in a mortal merchant's cart, surrounded by a company of their sleeping soldiers. It is perhaps the least appropriate venue he could have chosen.

She does not anger, however. After another long minute has passed, she simply lets out a soft sigh and Thranduil feels her turn, leaning against him as soldiers often lean against one another when they bed down for the night. The movement implies that she is about to sleep but - as disappointment and relief rise simultaneously inside of him - he feels her hand slip over to his under their shared cloak. Cool fingertips slip into his palm and he flinches. The contact is uninvited. It is beyond the boundaries of their roles as King and Captain and she should never presume to be so familiar. But she is not just his Captain, he thinks, swallowing. They both know that now.

After a moment, her fingertips slide around his thumb. They are cold compared to his own; still not recovered from her time outside. She kept watch for hours, he thinks, enduring as she has always done - for her soldiers, for her people, for him. He can never mitigate all that she has suffered over the years. He has nothing to offer that will soften the pain of her losses. The rules of their world forbid them the sort of companionship which could knit their wounds back together and he does not know how to go about breaking those rules. He does not know what to do next. He does not know what to say. But his fingers are warm where hers are cold. And he can fix that.

Slowly, almost timidly, he takes her hand in his, surrounding her fingers, letting warmth seep from skin to skin. She squeezes his thumb, asking for more. She is a bold one, he thinks, tightening his hand into a gentle fist. Always has been. Orphan child from the borders of his forest, rescued from orcs, raised to soldier, then to lieutenant, and finally to Captain, marking herself out every step of the way through her loyalty and her courage. She has fought for him every day since coming to this place, he thinks. Brave girl. 

Her fingers squeeze his thumb again. She takes a steadying breath.

“If this war will make us a new world,” she murmurs, “then perhaps it is not all in vain.” Her voice is quiet, so as not to wake their sleeping comrades, but it is steady. Sure. He feels her shift to look at him and cannot help but meet her gaze. Her eyes are amber, soft and deep, and filled with the promises they have made to one another. Unspoken promise and understanding. She seems to know what this moment is to him - realisation. She seems to know, too, how difficult it is. He thinks that she might have seen this coming months before he did. “I think we are ready for a new world,” she whispers to him, eyes bright pinpricks in the dark. “A better one. A world of light, where we are truly free.”

His throat is tight; a raw, physical emotion that has not risen to his surface for many centuries now. His face remains still, however. There are depths of pain that he cannot touch without ripping open old wounds. If he cries for them, now, he will cry all night - and he cannot let his soldiers witness that. Her, yes, he realises, with a rush of surprise. Her, he does not mind crying before, but the soldiers must never see him doubt himself. It is his sovereign duty to remain untouchable for them. Unquestionable. Guided by conscience beyond that which guides a single soul. He owes them that, for the war they are about to enter into, for their loyalty, for the lives they will lay down in his service. His face remains still, then, though dampness begins to collect in the corners of his eyes.

“I cannot help but hope for something better,” Tauriel continues, with that soft, sad smile. “However unlikely it looks... however unlikely any of it looks.”

He means to say something in agreement, but the words stall in his throat.

The failure makes her gaze soften further. Casting a momentary glance sideways, to check that their sleeping companions are still sleeping, she straightens in her seat and tilts her face to one side, leaning in until their cheeks are resting upon one another's - close enough for her lips to brush his earlobe.

“You are not alone, Thranduil,” she whispers, warm breath tickling his skin. The sound of his name in her voice is like magic. Her hair is falling all around them, smelling of the forest and her. Fingers warm inside of his, she is the one warm point in a wide, cold world. For just a moment, she is everything. Filling all of his senses. Too much and not enough. “Tonight, or any other night. Know that.” 

He closes his eyes, feeling a single tear spill over. 

She turns her face into his, kissing the wet away. The tip of her nose is cold. The touch of her skin is soft. Her lips are softer than he had ever imagined. He can feel them move against his cheek as she speaks again. 

“Sleep, my friend.” She lingers a second, before reluctantly pulling away. “It will look fairer in the morning.”

They watch one another for a few long heartbeats - blue eyes full of amber, amber full of blue - then she shakes herself free of the moment. Turning, she checks once more on their sleeping soldiers, before lowering herself back against the wall. Her shoulder presses into his arm as she rearranges her slender body. Her hand slides over to meet his under their shared cloak. He sits very still and, after a while, she rests her head on his shoulder and gives a long, weary sigh. To the outside, they look nothing more than two exhausted soldiers. Beneath the thick wool of his cloak, her thumb is tracing circles over the backs of his fingers. It is greater solace than he could ever have imagined. As the sound of his name echoes in his mind, slowly, very slowly, his body begins to relax. 

So there it is, he thinks, laying his head back against the rattling wall. Their hearts are laid bare before one another. Not so many words on his part, he thinks, with an internal grimace, but words of that kind have never been their way. They talk endlessly of tactics, of ancient histories, and books, and games, and duelling, and what weapon they could each best the other with (and how quickly they could do it); they talk freely of mythical creatures and stories, of the city, and the forest, and the ephemera of their earthly existence, but never of their hearts. What has passed between them, tonight, is more than they have managed in half a century. He will make effort to do better once they return to the city, he thinks, pressing his eyes closed and letting out a long, slow breath. There are things he wants to say to her. There are things she deserves to hear him say.

Their situation has not changed, of course. The two of them know that. Neither are naive enough to think that what has passed between them tonight will shift the nature of their relationship immediately. A war is coming and his people will need guidance and stability, through this troubled time. He will need her as his Captain in the months to come. He will need to keep them at a certain distance, to not allow sentimentality to cloud his judgement. He will need to trust her - to give her that wild, clever head of hers, so that she might do best to defend their people. But afterwards, if there is an afterwards - if he can dare to hope for an afterwards - then perhaps things can change.

She did not flee tonight, when he looked at her as if his soul was on fire with want. His feelings did not falter when she kissed his cheek. Surely that was a start? Of what, he was not sure, but perhaps the world would be kind and give them time to figure that out.

Outside, the caravan of wooden carts continues to rattle along its lonely track through the forest. Trees tower on either side, their tops bending and groaning in the wind, and the rain drums ceaselessly overhead. The sky is dark, and darker in the east than in any other direction. A storm is coming, and it would be a far greater storm than the one which hung overhead now. There is no way of telling what lay at the end of it, only that it would be like nothing that has come before. The world is changing, the Elvenking thinks. Their future is uncertain and there is only the tiniest flame of a hope - a single, flickering candle in what feels like never-ending night - but her thumb is tracing circles over the backs of his fingers, and it feels as if that might just be enough to keep the flame burning for now. 

There must be others doing the same as they tonight, he thinks, as his breathing begins to slow and deepen. Perhaps that is what would save them, in the end. Not blood, or swords, or armies and fortress towers, but the rest of it. The touch of skin on skin and the sound of names on lips, the feel of her body pressed against his, and the scent of rain in the forest. Beauty. Life. Love. As her fingers slip apart and his slide between, he can glimpse it for a second - their new world of shining light - and he allows himself a small sad smile, before her heartbeat begins to lull him off to sleep. Perhaps there is hope for them yet. 

Outside, the rain softens. Just a little.

.


End file.
